He only sees what's right there in front of him,
Whether it need be true,
What was once bountiful slowly growing slim,
Sometimes all he sees is you.
He only hears the cry of those who complain,
Being subjected only to what's bad,
But he does enjoy the sound of the rain,
Yet he knows too much for such a young lad.
He only smells things that are melancholic,
Old food, and old perfume,
That smell of skunk is less than symbolic,
But it will still always loom.
He only tastes his own bad breath,
Unable to grasp new things,
It feels quite like death,
Only being held up by strings.
He only senses the cold,
Unable to enjoy his ability to touch,
He may not be that old,
But he feels like he doesn't have much.
Yet he only can be bound to a tiny bubble,
Seeing the same things day in and day out,
One day it will all be rubble,
And he'll have never made it to the end of his route.